Deprivation
by Lemon Zinger
Summary: The doctor needs sleep too, especially when he's been at it for hours. BBA.


I glared at the pocket watch sitting open on my nightstand, defying me with every passing second. After my long week, the need for sleep was becoming dangerous and during these cold months the damage it did to my resistance was an even more worrisome prospect. But still I persisted in trying to sleep, when for two hours I had tossed and turned in the quiet house wanting for nothing but sleep and yet unable to manage it.

I was too tired to even be productive, and there was plenty needing to be done. A manuscript was awaiting me downstairs, and the post had stacked up since five days ago when I had been whisked away on a case. Upon my return I was immediately required to go sit vigil over a sick patient. When I got back from that, I had grown sick and slept in fitful bursts. I had woken feeling grumpy and drained to find my companion drifting into a black mood for lack of stimulation, and a fever for lack of proper food and rest; combined with prolonged exposure to the elements. If I should ever meet his mother, I would love to ask if she actually taught him how to take care of himself; or of his seeming ignorance in these matters is his own foolish belief that he is somehow invincible.

Needless to say, after seeing him back to health and only claiming a handful of hours of sleep myself in the process; I knew that to try to stay on my feet any longer I would collapse, so I had returned to my bed with the intention of actually not seeing the sunrise for once.

But, two hours into my attempt had produced only yawns and mental lists of things I needed to do. I still had four other meetings to reschedule and some shopping to finish. I was aware that our funds were stretched tight by the sudden journey that had incurred expenses his client could not afford. The case was incredibly fascinating to him, for it could not have been his fee that drove him to take up the investigation. Rent was coming due in a week, and I was loath to ask for an extension. So keeping my schedule full with patients over the next three days, I hoped to make at least enough to help cover the missing portion of the rent.

But, if I intended to get up tomorrow at all, then I knew I needed sleep. It was quite simple in my head, but forcing my racing mind to stop was another matter. I again rolled, attempting to switch positions to try to get comfortable. Still nothing worked. I knew my medical bag had at least two solutions for my problem, but I was not keen to get up at all. I had swayed on my way up the stairs and I was worried about attempting them again.

I had fought for days to stay awake, and now I was fighting to avoid fidgeting too much. I knew my restless tossing and turning disturbed my friend below me, and did not like to be the cause of his lack of sleep.

Instead, I tried some other methods to induce sleep. I tried controlling my breathing and keeping my eyes closed. After a while I began to feel very relaxed. I was in a semi-conscious state, unable to hold on to any thoughts that occurred to me; but, with colors and soft echoes in the background that I could not catch as they flashed through my mind.

Suddenly I was reminded of the last case we had gone on. The silent burnt out house on the hill that was still littered with debris. The snow that blanketed the surrounding forest had crept into the dilapidated walls and lay in small patches on the caved-in roof and throughout the rest of the house. The soft footfalls we were making as we panted from the walk were clearly resounding in my mind. Our labored breathing and the puffs of white coming from our mouths were vividly detailed. The whole scene was playing out before me like I was actually back there, walking beside Holmes as we made our way to the small clearing in which the house sat.

Just as when it had really happened, I stumbled. With all the grace and strength I had come to expect from him, Holmes snagged my elbow and kept me from falling in the cold white powder. I murmured my thanks as his hand lingered on my arm until he was certain I had reclaimed my balance.

"That's quite alright," said he, his eyes surveying the house with a glimmer of anticipation.

I had come to recognize the subtle signs of excitement on his face when he was approaching what promised to be a turning point or conclusion in any case. I had no doubts that I only knew less than half of what he had already deduced from our surroundings. With his angular face curved up in a grin reminiscent of a tiger hunting, he began to stride forward once again. I followed, one hand slipping into my pocket to feel the cold, hard metal of my revolver to reassure myself it was there. I didn't know what to expect. But, as Holmes had take the time to directly ask me to bring my firearm, I was on the alert for danger.

He strode into the house and looked around, seeming unperturbed by the old floors that creaked in protest to the weight. I was well aware he was too busy investigating to pay very much mind to the floors. Suddenly, he knelt and I stifled a gasp, thinking he was falling. Instead he was kneeling to examine the ground only a few steps into the foyer. I waited patiently for him to finish looking over the floor. When he had again risen to his full height, I cleared my throat.

"Do be careful, Holmes," I said. "These floorboards do not look entirely stable."

He cast me a quick nod. I smiled and shook my head fondly at his unbridled enthusiasm as he was quickly walking into a room to our left that might have at one time been a parlor or study. Now the foliage had crept in, with tendrils meandering up the far wall and piles of dead leaves littering the floor.

"He came into this room, Watson," Holmes informed me.

I swallowed, feeling my mouth going a bit dry from the hike and cold air. "Did he have those papers?" I asked, curious if we might save the young girl from a fate worse than death.

"He intended to hide them here, in the home of his childhood until he could manage to scare us back to London. She would then be forced to accept the terms of the agreement," Holmes replied.

"Well, well, well, I guess you caught me," a voice rasped from behind us as we whirled around to find Porter leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe.

It struck me that he must know the house very well still if he could sneak up on us without a sound. Holmes smiled at him and slowly walked a little closer, getting in front of me a little.

"You may as well give up, Porter," he ushered. "Is she really worth all this?"

"I don't know about her, but outwitting you has been rather fun. I see you noticed the pistol was aimed for your doctor friend. Well done."

I managed to look around Holmes to see the familiar bulge of a gun in our quarry's pocket. I was surprised by his show of concern to place himself in my way. I refused to be bullied by the weapon and stepped forward to my companion's side. He sent me a look; but, then, Porter commanded his attention again by shifting his weight to straighten up. Once he was balanced, he began walking forward and I was reminded of a snake as he slowly slid towards us, his eyes dancing in pleasure.

"You make rather slow time, gentlemen. I was here an hour ago, and already reclaimed these," he said, drawing out a bundle of folded papers from his inner coat pocket. "While they might be of questionable legality, I think your client will have to accept the law, in this case."

I was nearly driven mad by the injustice of it all. Furious and nearly shaking with uncontained rage, I looked at Holmes wondering what his plan was. He merely shrugged.

"So be it, Porter."

Porter laughed, his eyes aglow. "What a sorry excuse for a detective you turned out to be," he said, turning away.  
"Holmes what are you doing?" I asked, looking at him in astonishment.

"It is over, Doctor. We can in no way legally interfere," Holmes said with a shrug.

"You are a little old to believe in heroes, Doctor," Porter advised me, looking back over his shoulder. "And this Sherlock Holmes certainly isn't one of them."

He turned back around and rounded the corner. Unable to contain it anymore, I took a few large steps and threw myself against his back, bringing us both crashing to the floor. My hands groped for the bundle of papers and I heard a muffled curse come from Porter.  
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew this was wrong. Somewhere I sensed this was not reality, and these memories were not true. But I was blindly fighting Porter for the papers, my one goal to undo him.

He suddenly rolled over, and I was knocked onto my back. Holmes was standing a foot away when I heard the loud bang. His face froze in horror, and I saw the crimson stain beginning to show through his clothing. I heard myself scream and then began to try to move. It was as if my limbs had become leaden as I tried to force my foggy mind to process what I was feeling and seeing versus what I knew to be true.

Suddenly, I was hit with the sensation of free falling and then a good deal of pain from my lower back and hip. I opened my eyes and realized I was still in my room. I was breathing in shuddering gasps and spent several moments trying to get my bearings.

The door suddenly opened behind me and collided with my head. A curse of surprise and pain flew from my lips even as my friend proceeded to apologize for the accident.

"Are you quite alright, Doctor?" he asked.

His hand gently touched the spot that the door had hit my skull and my jaw tensed as he hit the spot. He removed his hand as another apology left his lips. His perspicacity to note when I winced while standing behind me was no longer as astounding as it was before, and I scooted aside to give him entrance into the room.

"Are you alright, Watson?" Holmes asked for the second time.

I realized I had yet to answer him as he knelt in front of me, a hand on my shoulder. I realized my fall out of bed had woken him, and his gray eyes were gazing at me with concern.

"I am all right, dear fellow, just a little disoriented," I replied.

"I am sorry for hitting you – "

"No, Holmes, it was a nightmare," I explained, swallowing.

My mouth was dry as it had been in the dream and I coughed a little. Holmes reached for the water glass beside my bed and passed it to me, seeming ready to assist in any manner he could.

"You are exhausted my, dear chap," He observed.

I yawned, not even arguing with him. His hand flew to my brow and a frown crossed his mouth.

"You are sick. We should get you back into bed," he ordered, helping me up.

The moment I gained my feet, a cry was torn from my lips as my back screamed in protest. I felt my legs buckling, and Holmes' grip tightened as he hurried to support all my weight to keep me from falling again. Ungracefully, he managed to get me back on the bed and helped position me. After dashing for my medical bag, he silently began to assess the damage and then prescribed a dose of laudanum to help.

"You need rest, too, Holmes," I managed to murmur as I began to feel sleep overtaking me again.

"I will, Doctor, but I will see you well, too," he insisted before I finally slipped into a deep sleep.


End file.
